


The Bluebird's Song

by captainmeow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Food, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rebirth, Short One Shot, Snow, Temporary Character Death, Trolls (Homestuck), War, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainmeow/pseuds/captainmeow
Summary: A man like that didn’t leave your mind no matter how many times you told him to go. A man like that didn’t leave your heart alone, no matter how many times you told it no.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	The Bluebird's Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.
> 
> This has been puttering around in my head for a few months now as a more tame concept. Originally it was going to be an AU in which Dirk volunteers to drive one of those horse rides and then sits in on John's Christmas piano concert, but it recently took shape to be more like... well, this.
> 
> I wrote this over the course of several days, smashing words together in the bathroom and in the middle of the night, so most of this will probably not make sense. I am shocked it came out in time for Christmas at all. Nevertheless, here we are, and I hope someone makes it to the end.
> 
> I don't know what sleep is anymore.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Read the tags.

You kneel at the grave, snow hard and unyielding beneath your weight, cold drenching through the layers of your pants, and lay down your bouquet of daffodils onto the frozen crust. A curious gust brushes past you then, kicking up wild flurries of snow into your face. Icy flakes stick to your cheeks, your mouth, your lashes, your hair; you let them stay unacknowledged, your mind not on the cold.

Your concentration is far below the earth, where you had buried a man thirteen years ago. His name is etched into the slab of stone protruding from the snow-capped mound before you--just a first name, as you had never learned his last, but that single name burdens you more than any heritage could.

There are many graves around you, many blank and barren. One of them should be yours--should read "Dirk Strider" across the stone; one of them could have worn your brother's name, had anyone been able to find his body.

The war had taken many lives, but none of them had been yours. As you kneel down before John's name, you reflect back on a time when you could have changed that.

Only, even then, barely acquainted, you hadn't been able to say no to him.

* * *

Like a thing of nightmares, trolls had fast become a heated topic of interest at every table and corner. You had first heard of it when your brother had come home with a flyer in his hand and a frown on his face.

"They're calling every able-bodied man above twenty-one to join up in the ranks," he'd told you, even as he favored his right leg while crossing the room to ease into a weathered chair.

"You didn't join, did you?" You'd asked, even knowing the answer. But your brother could be proud, determined, and too protective for his own good. The limp in his leg was proof of that. Back then, you’d been convinced it was your common sense that had compelled you to make sure. (You now know it had been fear.)

"Nah, they rejected me. Said I looked too young."

His reply hadn't relieved you at all; you only had blinked owlishly at him, unsure if you were more disturbed that he had tried, or that he had been sent home solely for his appearance. How they hadn't noticed his handicap, you don't know.

It hadn't saved him.

Whatever men had been sent to protect the borders had not been enough. Reinforcements from larger cities had yet to come. Within a week, trolls that had thus far seemed hard pressed to advance, stagnating at neighboring territories, suddenly broke through the lines. As a last resort, any man or woman able to hold a weapon had been sent away to preserve what hope of security was left. Your brother had been one of them.

"It'll be over soon enough, one way or the other," he had told you the morning of departure. You found no bag slung over his shoulder, no pouch or flask or worldly good anywhere on him but the clothes on his vulnerable body.

"Don't go," you'd whispered. "You won't come back."

"Pretend I never was around to leave," he'd replied.

You all too late learned what he had meant by that. But then, he had been asking too much of you.

And you had been right. He had never come back.

* * *

Rumors had suggested they were not too unlike humans. Whoever had started that rumor had evidently not ever seen a troll.

If they were anything like humans, then humans were monsters; and if mankind could be regarded as creatures so terrible, then what worse was left for beasts as the troll?

Looking back, there may have been words for the history books, but nothing would have ever been enough for the grieving.

The trolls had descended into town by the droves, wrecking homes and innocents with devastating violence. Stores and homes alike were set aflame. Men were slaughtered in the streets, women and children dragged out soon afterwards, all made an example of for those who would not submit to their Empress.

Only the sobs of the fearful and suffering had drowned out the screams in the air. Only the stench of death had been stronger than that of smoke and char.

Humans, of course, are notoriously resilient, stubborn, and strong-willed. Not even a day after invaders had begun to ransack the town, a rebellion had formed.

Your last relative remaining, a much older cousin with a far more level head on her slim shoulders than you ever had at the time, had formed an impressive network of contacts and sympathizers for what remained of the human race in the region. Later, you would discover just how extensive that network had reached; in the thick of things, scraping by day by day, it had seemed miraculous that the rebellion hadn't been discovered from the very start.

Perhaps it had been how unassuming the staunchest rebels had been that had allowed them as much time as it had. You even were counted among their numbers, and all you had been was a quaking young thing, barely old enough to be considered a man, consumed by dread. Your cousin was a rather frail woman, by all appearances, but that had doubtlessly benefited her; a subservient nod and genteel veneer did wonders when forced to deal with arrogant trolls that were searching for meatier, fiestier humans to satiate their bloodlust and boredom. You'd learned to imitate that discretion and composure, even when a troll had barged into your mostly deserted home and ravaged the pantry shelves for sport.

"It's not safe for you to be alone," Rose had remarked one day, as the smoke billowed high over what had once been the bakery. The two of you had watched from behind dark lace for curtains in the upper bedroom window, as a distraught young woman and her grandfather frantically worked to put out a rapidly spreading fire that already licked high through the storefront's broken glass toward the roof.

The inside of her bedroom had been chilly, the unlit fireplace as dark as the grim disaster across the street.

Rose had been strong. She hadn't shivered once. You had needed that strength--needed to pretend you had some for yourself.

"I'll be alright," you'd insisted, all bravado. "They don't come by the house anymore. There's nothing left."

"Still, you should move elsewhere. There have been trolls working their way through neighborhoods, killing those who don't entertain their demands. This isn't a matter of practicality, you do realize, I'm sure."

"I get it. But I'll be fine."

You hadn't wanted to leave your home in case your brother might return one day--if there was even a house to return to. You hadn't wanted to open yourself to the chance of being separated from someone else in a bout of tragedy again.

Rose had understood. She hadn't argued about it. But she had retrieved a strip of paper, scrawled on tiny, elegant print--an address for you to pocket.

"Should the situation arise, say or do what you must, and go to the next district. The man at this address will take you in. Just ask for the bluebird's song."

"Thanks, but I won't need it."

That time, you had been wrong. You had needed it.

You'd needed the address that night, you had quickly realized, when you'd returned home and found two trolls rummaging about in your living room.

That night, you had learned that a man's stride wasn't as long as a troll's, but a man could still run faster.

In a cramped crate full of glass bottles of cider, on a creaking wagon drawn by a tired mule with a sour-faced driver, you had hidden yourself and stowed away. Tucked low with chilling trepidation that stiffened in your joints and along your spine, you'd rode aboard that ramshackled transport into the next district until the driver had stopped at a store to make deliveries, at which point you'd slipped away when no one had been looking.

The streets hadn't been populated with the normal foot traffic, but then, there hadn't been as many trolls patrolling the area, either. You had navigated the streets on your aching, bare feet until you reached the right neighborhood, followed the cobblestone road up an incline to where the houses crowded close together and storefronts loomed overhead on the other side, rooftops casting cold and judgmental shadows on your nosing about.

Number 413. You'd stopped in front of that door, wooden and blue with a black iron-cast handle, and hesitated. Because if whoever lived here turned you away, as anyone sensible would do with the threat of violence the trolls would bring upon rebel sympathizers, where would you go?

You had no answers to that. All you had been able to tell yourself at the time was that Rose had said you could go here for refuge, and she had never been wrong before.

You'd knocked so quietly the first time, two gentle raps, that you hadn't been able to hear it yourself. But you'd barely begun to knock again, louder, when the door had opened partway.

You had been expecting an older man, one at least your cousin's age if not older; but the man that had answered the door couldn't have been much older than you, though he had a certain sense of composure about him that you'd only seen in the aged. Maybe it had been his glasses, or the fact that he had been a head higher than you. Whatever the case, you'd been fortunate he'd answered the door at all.

"Can I help you?"

He'd sounded like someone who wouldn't have heard of trolls a day in his life, all warmth and balm in his smile. And you, haggard, filthy, cheeks stung red with cold and lungs breathless with fear, could only peer up at him with wary hope.

Had Rose not given you that address, where would you have gone? Hell?

"Can I hear the bluebird's song?" You'd asked in hushed, frightened tones, though the streets were clean and the sun was bright, as if you had been after some forbidden thing.

Maybe you had.

But he had swept the door aside and ushered you in. He'd told you with his hand warm and gentle on your stiff and aching back, "If you know how to listen, you can! And you can have more than that!"

And so he had given you more than that.

He had given you everything.

The first thing you had received had been a bath, warm and deep, in the private corner of the washroom; and there had been towels, impossibly soft and white, to dry yourself with. When you'd emerged from that room, dressed in spare clothes that had been a size too large for you, but sturdy and dry still, you'd caught him busied in the kitchen, whisking together flour and sugar and cream, the last of which you hadn't seen in months.

He'd fed you fresh, hot cakes off the stovetop, filled your belly with that and currant jam and warmed water with honey, until you had been convinced you'd either burst or drop.

Then, over the table, with flour in his hair and the sky in his eyes, he had given you his name.

"Oh, by the way, I'm John! You're welcome to stay as long as you want, and everything here is yours if you need it!"

You'd moved in for barely three days, though you would have stayed longer; but though your heart had only ever been so small and selfish, John had never moved out of it.

The first night had been jarring, in the way you often had come to realize you'd acquired a wound that hadn't hurt until you'd accidentally noticed it. After an early dinner of stew and hot, buttered rolls, of which you had eaten with an almost barbaric gusto, much to John's amusement, you'd settled into an armchair and spent the better half of the evening staring tactlessly at the inside of John's home. Your host had seated himself at an upright piano, the wood darkly stained and the keys yellowed like an antique; but the music had been anything but old or weathered.

It had been the bluebird's song.

Every note had sung in your head like a bird in summer, and your eyes had eventually fastened onto the soft wrinkles stretched thin across the back of John's shirt. There had been photos neatly hung in frames, flower-print wallpaper, and wreaths of herbs on the wall; a small birdcage in which a tawny little songbird had contentedly perched, sleeping; papers and jars of assorted things left in a neat pile on a desk--but none of those had been able to hold your interest by the end of that song. You'd watched only him then as he'd played it again, his fingers long and delicate across worn keys, until the slant of afternoon sun finally shut its eye, and the cool of the evening had begun to infiltrate the room.

Unlike Rose's house, there had been no fireplace. John's home had offered an old wood stove, polished and well kept, but not without a few scratches. Not so unlike John, in a way, you'd mused once or twice during your brief stay there.

John had lit the stove after one last encore, and then he had turned to you with a polite but appraising eye. You'd been reminded of your brother and the way he had regarded you when you'd been barely knee high, how he had seen much but said little, and how you'd mistaken his smile for happiness.

You never had liked making the same mistake twice.

Not once had you believed John had been happy. But you later had liked to think that he could have been, if he'd only had some help.

"How are you feeling?" He'd asked you, and you had only been able to look at him with uncertainty--disbelief, even, that he had the mind to ask you that. But some of that disbelief had been for yourself when you'd looked inside and found you didn't know the answer, because you were suddenly too numb to feel anything anymore.

You'd shrugged at him, which had apparently been as much as a response as he'd expected. John hadn't pushed the matter; he'd just hummed with some preoccupation then and excused himself into the back room. When he had emerged a few minutes later, he'd waved you over to join him, and you'd pulled yourself out of the chair with a reluctance that had informed you that you'd at least been tired.

The back room had unsurprisingly turned out to be his bedroom, a cozy space just large enough for a bed, a changing stand, a small dresser and a short trunk for clothes and other belongings. You'd spent longer than had felt proper examining a floral print quilt thrown over the bed, noting faded blues and frills along the edges in the slight ambient light.

"I have some correspondence to catch up on," he'd said to you as he'd pulled back the covers and fluffed up the pillows. "When you're ready, you can have the bed. If you need more blankets, there's one in the chest; it gets cold back here some nights."

You'd seen his house; there had been no other place to sleep, no cot or even a rug to lay on for a while. The thought of you putting him out of the few comforts of his own home had incensed your pitiful pride.

"I don't need the bed," you'd bit out, even as your weary body ached to rest and your extremities had begun to tingle with cold. But what was cold when you'd felt so empty inside? So dead?

John had only chuckled at you quietly, maybe even reprovingly in a gentle way, as if you'd made a joke.

"You've had a long day. You should get some rest soon."

"I'm fine."

You'd never meant those words a day in your life, no matter how often you'd said them; and John hadn't argued with you, but you'd been able to tell that he knew better than to believe you.

"Well, it's there if you need it," is all he'd said in the end, before he'd slipped back out into the main room.

And you'd debated the merits to your ego of staying up anyways, had stood like a fool in the dark of the room until you'd then begun to consider if you could at least curl up on the wooden floor and nod off for a while. Finally, after begrudging resignation, with the thought that at least out in the other room, John had the comforts of the warm stove, you'd crawled under the blankets and tucked them tightly around you.

You'd fallen asleep rather quickly, despite all protests before, though you hadn't stayed asleep too long.

Dreams had never been kind to you. Faceless horrors had recently begun to take more definite shapes, the eyes of your brother or thin limbs of your cousin often subject to dire incidents or outright catastrophe. In John's home, your nightmares had been no less intrusive, and you'd woken with a startled gasp.

John had still been at the table, laboring over several sheets of paper by lamplight, a pen quietly scratching at the surface of one and then the other, when you'd appeared in the doorway. He hadn't noticed you at first, hadn't turned his head away from his work until your feet had scraped against the floor too close for him to ignore.

Letters had been spread about the table, lists of names and addresses scrawled tiny down a page left on top of all but the sheet in his hands. You'd expected him to fold everything up and hide it from your curious eyes, but John had only glanced over you and returned to his writing.

"Can't sleep, huh?"

"Yeah."

When it had become clear that you would have stood there, vacantly gazing at his neat scrawl, John had gestured to the empty chair across from him.

"Why don't you sit?"

You had sat, mostly due to lack of anything else to be done, but not without wariness.

"Aren't I bothering you?"

"No, I'm just writing to a friend. She's leaving town this week and I wanted to pass along a few thoughts before she goes."

"Oh."

The wood stove, as it had turned out, had not been as warm as you'd imagined. Your breath had remained unseen, but you'd rubbed your hands on your legs under the table in an effort to warm them.

John had soon finished his writing, had neatly folded up his letter and slipped it into an envelope. You’d watched him with eyelids almost languorously heavy, each blink slower than the time before to flutter up again, as he'd drawn out another sheet of paper and set to addressing it in careful, measured strokes.

It’s only when you had stirred to the sound of cured meats sizzling in a hot pan, had lifted your head to the sight of a platter filled with slices of aged, dry cheeses and toasted, buttered bread, that you’d realized you had fallen asleep at all.

Over breakfast, between bites of food and sips of hot tea, you’d found enough interest to ask John how he had been able to secure such provisions when the troll presence had left so many bereft of so much.

“I suppose the easiest answer is that my family has always had a lot of money,” he’d confessed to you with surprising candor. “I try not to feel bad about it despite the circumstances because it grants me a lot of opportunity to help others during these times of unrest.”

Others like yourself, you’d quickly caught on; but if there had been any defensiveness in John’s tone, you hadn’t found a need for it. In your position, who would you have been to complain?

“Aren’t you worried about money running out, though?” You’d questioned, and John had shrugged indifferently at you, hands cradling his teacup, his eyes cast absently towards the kitchen window framed with lace-hemmed gingham.

“Not really. I submit articles to the newspaper frequently enough, which brings in a decent enough sum. It helps me stay connected to valuable contacts, and it gives me better access into current events, which is worth more than a grander income. And at any rate, money is nice, but it’s not everything, wouldn’t you agree?”

He’d turned his eyes on you then, had searched yours with an expression you hadn’t been able to interpret beyond peculiar and sad; and you had only been able to nod into your cup with a sudden diffidence.

“I guess so.”

With John’s job, you’d been able to see why Rose would have kept association with someone so young. Information was critical for your cousin while she was regarded as a prominent figurehead of the rebellion. A journalist would have been given a free excuse to nose around and invite himself into places otherwise forbidden, to ask questions, to speak to either side.

Even someone likely spoiled from conveniences and affluence had been able to make himself useful during the war. And your brother, handicap and all, had been given a role.

There had been nothing wrong with _you_ , a young man without blemish or disease. You had been hale, stubborn, and full of conviction. Sitting there in John’s kitchen, due to that same conviction, you’d been seized with a desire to be useful and to contribute _something_ when everyone else around you had somehow managed it.

It wouldn't bring back what--who--you had already lost, but maybe it could prevent you from losing more.

"Is there something I can do?" You'd asked, near to bursting with determination; and John had looked at you courteously enough--though, thinking back on it now, you think it had been more like a parent sparing a child's feelings rather than a straightforward consideration, despite how close you two had been in age.

"I assume you don't want to risk being seen out in public, and that doesn't leave you with much. But a friend of mine is due to come over this afternoon, and she always could use fresh eyes and minds on her inventions."

"Inventions? I'm not exactly an engineer."

"Haha, is that so? Well, I think your input could still benefit her. How do you feel about guns?"

"My family has always been more of a close quarters sort. Never handled one."

"This will be your chance, then!"

You'd sent John a flat look, feeling cheated somehow.

"How is this meant to help?"

John hadn't seemed at all like he had been withholding real work from you. A solemnity had weighed down his face; a quiet had fallen over him as he'd then turned from the window and stared down into his cup.

"The trolls have a huge advantage with their long-range abilities. My friend, Jade, would be able to mass produce her product once she's worked out all the kinks. There aren't many people left in our hometown with the funds or knowledge to assist her with what she needs now, though. I know it might not seem like much, but even if you just test it out for yourself and let her know how it works, it really would help her progress."

"Why don't you just do it?" You'd shot back, and John's mouth had slanted awkwardly in a broken smile.

"I'm not much one for guns."

It had been all he'd said, but it had been enough for you to drop the matter. That look had explained enough.

Guns had hurt John, just like the trolls had hurt you. Not directly, but still permanently, and that was bad enough.

* * *

Jade Harley, John's friend, had turned out to be more than a boring gun inventor. The guns you had been familiar with were clunky, ugly things, drab and dull and all too loud. What the woman in John's living space had presented before you had been nothing short of revolutionary; sleek, shiny, and silent, it had been a work of art. It had been hard to believe that her invention had been meant to take down a troll when it was so thin and light.

Her hair had been loose around her slender frame, dark and silky in complement to a sun-kissed face and metal frames supported by a smart nose. That nose had crinkled at you when you'd carelessly plucked at the trigger, and she had snatched the weapon away from you with a wary hand.

"You can't just shoot in here like that! I haven't set up absorbent panels yet!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Absorbent panels," she'd sighed, as if you had been terribly uneducated and no more than a silly child. You'd glared at her, and she had elucidated with a cluck of her tongue. "Okay, look, this isn't like the other firearms the military has been using. Which is good, since they're _losing_. Not that it's their fault! They just don't have my technology yet."

She'd fished about in a slim briefcase, had procured a board seemingly smeared with soot for how dark it had been. You'd been blank-faced, unimpressed, until the board had proved to be collapsible; panel after attached panel had unfolded, and she'd stretched it upright across a wall.

"I don't expect you to have the best aim, so we'll open it all the way. But n  
_now_ you can shoot. Point the muzzle at the wall, and let me know how the recoil goes. I think I've reduced most of the snapback--there's still some even without bullets--but I haven't tested this latest model."

"What exactly does this shoot, if not bullets?"

You'd taken the gun from her hesitantly then, had eyed it cautiously like it had been a snake instead of a weapon. More dangerous, even.

Jade had smirked at your shift in behavior, hands then on her hips as she had sent a stray lock of hair over her shoulder with a toss of her head.

"Energy particles, of course," she'd intoned with amusement, as if knowing your face would have contorted with as much confusion as it had. "Look, just try it. You'll see."

And so you'd tried it, and you did see. You'd seen ambient light concentrate and thrust together, propelled forward with a blast that had crackled and scattered across those panels like untamed electricity, all snarled arcs and brilliant blue flashes. But the way you'd been forced back in stumbling steps into the couch cushions had left you stunned, and if that had been after Jade had tempered the recoil, you had been worried about what the original kickback had been like.

"Well, what do you think?" She'd beamed at you, and you'd frowned down at the gun in your hands with a mix of discomfort and respect.

"Recoil is rough."

"Really? That's all you're going to say? No 'wow' or anything?!"

"Well, it doesn't matter how amazing it is if no one can use it in a practical exchange."

"Ugh, fair enough," Jade had sighed, and when she had reached for the weapon, you'd gladly handed it off to her.

"Sorry, it's impressive and all, but if someone missed, they'd be screwed."

"Yeah, but I haven't figured out a way to completely neutralize the recoil. This is as far as I've come!"

"Can't you just…" Your mind had clicked through what basic understanding you'd had of energy, which admittedly wasn't much; but your brother had always said you had a penchant for puzzles. Maybe he'd been right about something. "I don't know, _ground_ it?"

Jade had regarded you blankly before her face had split into a wide grin.

"Actually, I can! I'll have to put together some clothes for that, but I know a lady who can do that if I give her the specifications! Gee, thanks, why didn't I think of just making some outfits for it!"

"You're welcome?"

You'd felt lost to Jade's enthusiastic muttering, but she'd seemed elated enough about whatever breakthrough you'd contributed towards, and it had felt good to help with _something_.

As it had turned out, your comment had inspired her to not only complete the gun but to also create a line of specialized gear to deal with the recoil--products she had indeed mass produced and quickly distributed within a week. It had only been due to that, that the trolls had been pushed back at all; that within a week, the war had slowed to a standstill, and soon had died out entirely.

It had saved countless lives, but none of those survivors had known the bluebird's song.

* * *

While Jade had commandeered most of the afternoon with animated musings about gun aesthetics, and you had patiently entertained her ramblings with suitably timed nods and grunts, John had been out and about on business. He'd entrusted your care to Jade (or the other way around, he'd joked privately with you before her arrival) and had left the two of you to deal with her work. By the time the front door had clicked open and John had returned, a brown paper sack filled with groceries, you'd been on the brink of ushering Jade out yourself despite a likelihood of her reserving more authority over the home.

"John! Look what Dirk and I came up with!"

Jade had been first to greet John. She'd beamed at him, looked up at him from rough sketches sloppily made on scraps of paper, and had gestured to the scribbles.

"I didn't really come up with anything," you'd corrected; but your attention had been more on John and the bag in his arms. One day with John hadn't removed the surprise at seeing so much unspoiled food, and food that you had been free to eat, at that.

You and your brother had never starved, but you had often been _hungry_ , and the impulse to ration out the food in John's arms had been so strong. Just as well that you had only been a guest, else you would have right there in front of him, tactless and deliberate--much like the way Jade and John had begun to quarrel in the kitchen while you had lapsed into a somber reverie.

"You know how I feel about guns." As carefully as John had spoken it, his attention seemingly focused on arranging out cans and jars of foods by the stove, there had been a certain clipped quality in his voice that had given away how uncomfortable he had really been.

But Jade had insisted stubbornly, had gesticulated broadly in the air to emphasize her disapproval, had seemed not to notice the tension that you already had been able to identify as out of place on John.

“Well, yeah, I get it, but you’re practically defenseless here! What if a troll comes? What are you going to do, hit it with a _spatula?_ ”

“You and I both know I’m not cut out for violence, Jade,” John had sighed. Jars of preserves and what you’d suspected were pickled onions had been neatly stacked in one corner--but John’s hands had been shaking.

You’d thought to open your mouth, to mitigate some of the stress that had been building in the kitchen, but Jade had pushed too fast for you to have said anything useful.

“Neither was Jane, but at least _she_ had _tried_ \--”

“That’s _precisely_ why the answer is still _no!_ ”

At John’s outburst, you’d watched realization slowly wash over Jade’s face, and a softness had fallen on her face and into her voice.

“Oh, John, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean--I just…” The ensuing quiet had not been peaceful. John, with his back turned to both you and Jade, had suddenly seemed so cold and distant, so completely unlike the warm and gentle man who had greeted you on the doorstep and had given you his bed. “I just don’t want to lose you, too.”

It had been a reasonable enough motivation; and yet, John had said nothing, and after several stifling moments of silence, it had become clear that he had no intention of rejoining the conversation.

Deflated, Jade had withdrawn, had tucked her things under an arm and excused herself.

You had stood awkwardly at the threshold of the kitchen while John had hunched over the countertop, until at last you’d decided to finish unloading the sack of groceries. You’d laid out on the table the rest of the cans--beans, corn, meats; jars, mostly pickled vegetables like squashes and tomatoes; and there had been more bread, crusty and still somewhat warm from the bakery, along with smoked fish and unfamiliar greens. When you’d finished, you’d folded up the crinkly sack and set it aside, and then turned to John, who had still been staring off in the opposite corner of the kitchen.

“What do you want done with--”

“Jane was my sister,” he’d suddenly confessed, and you had paused by the sink, riveted there by a dreadful suspicion that John had been about to uncover some correlation between you that you’d rather not have discovered.

And he had. In quiet, broken tones, he’d explained to you that he had once had an elder sister, a lovely young woman who had devoted her entire life to raising and caring for him, not too unlike your brother had done for you. He’d shared with you how she had been among the numbers in this district who had set out to defend their loved ones, and how she also had not returned home. 

“It hadn’t even been to trolls,” John had muttered with a bitter, scoffing breath. “She’d been assigned to help the marksmen at the back lines. She should have been safer there. But…” Your eyes had been fastened on how John’s hands had trembled, how his voice had caught as he’d recalled his hurt. “There had been an accident. One of the guns hadn’t been loaded properly and it had… it had taken out a good portion of her face, and she… hadn’t made it.”

“I’m sorry,” you’d said dumbly, as if the words had held any meaning. Had John said as much in regards to your own sibling, it would have been just as empty. But John had seemed so wounded and raw about it, had communicated so much more emotion than you’d ever known how to use; it had seemed unkind to have not said anything at all.

Yet you hadn’t stopped there. You’d commiserated with him your own misfortune about your brother, and how he had also failed to return home; and John had turned to fix a strange look on you, nigh inscrutable but plainly contemplative all the while.

You hadn’t known what that look had meant, but it had not been the pity you’d expected. Perhaps John might have explained it but, for some reason, you'd been too afraid to ask.

You'd been too afraid that understanding that look would have required something of you that you had still been too afraid to give.

Later, of course, you'd regretted not asking.

Later, you had regretted many things.

* * *

In favor of something warmer to combat the chill, John had elected to make another stew. You'd joined him at the stove, sniffing spices and sampling spoonfuls of meats and beans in tomato-based broth; had nearly scalded your tongue once or twice without shame for how savory and tangy the flavors had coated your tongue; had torn off rough chunks of bread and slathered on butter, let it all melt together into wide-mouthed bowls on the table as your stomach had voiced its approval of the combined sight and scents.

John hadn't needed your help with dinner, but you'd had the feeling that he'd needed company--and, well, you had been recognized as his indefinite guest, so you'd made yourself more friendly out of respect for his hospitality.

Over those steaming bowls, you'd made pleasant small talk with John, had settled into a comfortable tandem of exhale, question, blow, listen, breathe, talk, repeat.

John had been two years older than you. He had been born in the spring. His favorite color had been blue, he had liked birds, and he had once considered attending a respectable college in pursuit of music. You, in contrast, had been born in the heart of winter, with a disposition as cold and a future as bleak; but you had once loved the colors of the sun, and you had fast been discovering that the sun could never be that far removed from the sky.

You hadn’t been an ambitious or romantic sort of person, of course. You’d said as much more defensively than you’d needed to--had glowered sullenly at one last chunk of buttered bread in your hands as you’d muttered it.

John had laughed at you then, deeply and richly; you’d lifted your eyes and had regarded him with wonder, a warmth suffusing through your core from that hearty noise that had filled the room with such incredible vibrancy. It had made your heart tumble like a fawn in the spring, and you had been eager to hear it again, and again, and again; but you had been unable to find your voice, entranced as you had been by those brilliant blue eyes and the way his cheeks had been so round and rosy. It had become enough for you to replay that sound in your head later, over and over again, in the darkness of your mind.

(It had been enough for your eyes to have darted away from his, and to have pretended that there had been something coy about it for once.)

The two of you had talked well past evening, long after your bowls had been emptied and cups had been drained. Only when the colder bite of night had begun to pinch goosebumps on your skin and nip at your toes did either of you taper off in conversation.

“You probably want to go to bed soon,” John had remarked with mystifying disinterest about his own rest. It hadn’t been your place to quibble about it, but you had all the same.

“You didn’t even sleep last night, did you?”

“Oh, don’t mind me. I was so busy with my correspondence that I hadn’t even noticed!”

You’d narrowed your eyes in suspicion at that. Even as amiable as John had been, you’d seen the way he had sagged in the kitchen that afternoon; and as the both of you had busied yourselves, collecting dishes to be piled to soak in the sink, there had still been the weight of stress on his shoulders even then.

“You should take the bed tonight,” you had started, only to have been cut short by a dismissive wave and a lopsided smile.

“No, no, go ahead! You’re my guest.”

“Right. I’m the _guest_. This is _your_ house and it’s _your_ bed. You sleep in it tonight.”

“I’m not that tired--”

“You’d go to bed if I wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?” You’d challenged, and you’d counted it a small victory when John had paused at the sink.

“Maybe,” he’d admitted quietly; but then he had taken you by surprise when he’d continued, “But sometimes staying awake is easier. You know that, don’t you?”

And you’d understood at once that John had known all along why you had joined him at the table that morning--why you had fallen asleep listening to his pen scratching against the paper, instead of having remained wrapped up in a lonely blanket and lonelier memories.

It shouldn’t have surprised you at all that John, too, would also have had nightmares. He’d lost his sister just as you’d lost your brother; he had been no more disconnected from the war, the suffering of others around him, the cold of a harsh winter, than you had been. But you had, as always, been thinking only of yourself at first.

“Besides,” John had shrugged at you, as if there hadn’t been sorrow bruised under his eyes and as if he had never admitted fear or pain at all. “Where would you sleep, then? I don’t have a guest bed.”

“I can sleep on the floor. Or at the table.”

“Really? Isn’t it a bit cold to be sleeping in either of those places all night?”

“It’s cold alone in bed, too,” you’d countered, and then had realized the implications of that statement with hot embarrassment on your face. John had, to his credit, remained rather blank faced at that, though he had breathed out a strained laugh.

“Is that so?”

You could have relented, could have said it hadn’t been _that_ cold--like somehow John wouldn’t have known how cold or warm it would have been in his own bed. Instead, with daring thick in your voice, you’d stuck by your opinion.

“Yeah.”

“Do you need another blanket? I do have another one you could use--the one in the trunk.”

“Ask yourself that question. You’re the one who’s supposed to be in your own bed.”

“I don’t think the blankets really help the cold,” John had replied, and then it had been your turn to watch _him_ flush slightly. But while John had been made of stronger stuff than you, in the end, it had been John who had been the first one to concede to that _something_ that had inextricably latticed its way between you both.

“Does anything?”

“Actually, there is something…”

“What?”

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way--you can just have the bed, if you want! But, uh, there’s always body heat!”

You had stared at him flatly then while the gears in your head had turned over the meaning in those words.

“Body heat,” you’d echoed quietly, as you had studied the way his face had colored and tightened sheepishly.

“Yes. You know, it happens when people are in close proximity and--”

“I know how body heat works, John.”

“Oh, yeah?” He’d laughed self-consciously, and you hadn’t had it in you to bicker about who would have been taking the bed that night anymore.

“Sure," you'd grunted. "Fine, whatever." Sighed, even. "Let’s do it.” 

For a moment, John had looked at you with incredulity, like he hadn't expected you to agree at all. It had been a look marked with hope, but you had brushed it off as John simply having been surprised at how tactless you could be.

“Really?”

"Yeah, why not. Lead the way."

The both of you had then engaged in a game of Not Too Far, But Not Too Close. You'd followed John into the bedroom, but had spent an extra moment or two fastidiously adjusting your clothes; and John had pulled back the bedcovers, only to go back and make a show of checking the lock on the door and setting his glasses on the nightstand.

Then you both had expectantly loitered on either side of the bed, as if you had been willing the other to climb in first, until John had again been the one to cave and had unceremoniously flopped sideways down onto his side.

Though his back had been turned and he'd been as close to the opposite edge of the bed as possible, you'd still hesitated, torn between scandalized and resigned. John had glanced back at you once, and then had thrust his head back around into the pillows when he'd realized you'd been staring.

With a long sigh, you'd slipped under the covers and tugged them up to your chin, and then had spent the greater half of an hour stiff and tense and still somewhat chilled on "your half" of the bed, faced away from the person meant to help you keep warm.

"I think this defeats the purpose of body heat," John had mumbled somewhere behind you, and you'd managed a grunt at him.

A dignified response had been beyond you. You'd never shared a bed with even your own brother, and you'd never coupled with anyone before. Why you'd agreed to this has been unclear, and you'd nearly decided that you'd rather freeze on the floor when John had rustled about behind you, and you'd then felt his fingers land on your shoulder.

"Hey, scoot back," he'd gently tugged at you, and you suddenly had no intention of leaving the bed again.

You'd complied and wiggled your way carefully towards John, across too cool sheets, until you'd finally felt his warmth spread along your back; and then you'd let him carefully place an arm over you, let him edge closer just a bit more, so that you had become loosely held in place.

After several minutes of basking in that body heat--of a keen awareness of John's breath on the crest of your head, of the weight of his arm across your side, of a growing furnace in your cheeks, and of holding too still so as not to have seemed too indecent somehow--you'd impulsively decided to turn over.

John had tensened at your movement, had let you situate yourself so that you'd curled towards him, your spine like a bow, with your knees bent into his thighs and your hands placed just so about his belly; and you might have assumed that he'd found you asleep, or that he had fallen asleep himself, for how quiet and unmoving he had become--had you not angled your head up then, and caught his eyes with yours.

Depthless blue had peered back at you then, low-lidded and dark, and you had felt like an anchor drowned at sea in that moment. His breath had brushed against your face in waves, so warm and soft, and you’d swallowed loud enough to startle your gaze away from his--down, down to the curves and dips of his clavicle, where shadows accentuated the valley between.

“You’re still awake,” you’d murmured dumbly, and immediately had wished you’d said something less frivolous, maybe something less obvious about your sudden self-consciousness about the arrangement of your limbs and the closeness of your bodies.

But John had evidently been no better off than you, because all he had said was, “So are you.”

Neither of you had spoken after that, either too abashed or too tired to fill the air with more words when drowsy breathing had sufficed. And you had done much of that--breathing; you’d drawn in deep breaths, your nose pressed gently to John’s chest, and you had been lulled to sleep by the scent of him: soap, and woodchips, and warm spring air.

Sometime during the night, you had pressed closer; you’d woken with your cheek flush against John's chest, your ear filled with the sound of his steadily beating heart. That sound had reverberated pleasantly, soothed you back to sleep, and you’d been so comforted by it that you'd settled there, serenaded by that rhythmic beating, until morning had crept in through the window.

You'd been perplexed, half-conscious, when that calming heartbeat had become more agitated, thunderous and erratic, and John had roused you out of bed in hushed, hasty movements.

"Hurry up," he'd hissed at you under his breath, hands firm and insistent on your back and shoulders as he'd pushed you out into the unfairly cold air. Abruptly bereft of warmth and other comforts, you'd squinted and shivered, and you'd wondered why John had been making all that racket--and then you had realized the noise was not coming from John, but from the front door, and you had then been never more awake.

It had been trolls, and they had come to steal from you again.

“You don’t have a back door,” you’d noted with worry as you’d glanced around the room, noted how John had procured a small package from seemingly nowhere to thrust into your hands.

“The window. Hurry, come on.”

“The _window?_ Can we even fit through that?”

“You’re going to have to. It goes out into the alleyway. There’s a ladder to the left--grab onto it and go up onto the rooftops. There’s a way down a few buildings down.”

The way John had rushed you, had shoved you towards the door, had spoken so hastily, you’d almost missed the implication in his words: he hadn’t planned on going with you.

“Wait,” you’d stopped him, seizing him by an arm. The pounding at the front of the house had grown louder, more savage, but your concern had then been on John. “You’re coming too, right?”

John had managed a smile at you, a twisted thing that had sickened more than comforted you, and that had been confirmation enough for you.

“I can’t,” he’d said, and he’d thrust you back towards the terribly small window with all of its floral-printed curtains and lace trim. “We won’t both of us make it anyways.”

You’d struggled against him, had pushed back in frantic protest, had been unable to understand how John had been so strong and unflappable.

“ _You_ won’t make it at all! Have you ever even seen a troll up close? You don’t even--Jade was right, you should have taken a gun! You should have kept _something_ to defend yourself!”

"That's not really what I'm about," he'd murmured, too quiet beneath your shouts and the merciless beating in the other room.

"I won't go without you," you'd stated then in a fit of bravado, and that had seemed to give him pause long enough to at least unlatch and look out the window himself for a moment.

"Alright, but you first. You check to see if it's clear up top. But come on, hurry, _please_."

"You won't change your mind once I'm through, will you?" You'd practically challenged him, and John had squeezed your hand meaningfully before prying it off of you.

"No, my mind is made up, don't worry about that."

Like a fool, you'd trusted him. You'd tucked the tiny package into an accommodating pocket and then clambered up through the window, had forced yourself out into the backend of an alleyway. The ladder had been within reach to your left, just as John had said, and you’d gripped the coarse and frigid iron rungs tightly as you'd hoisted yourself up into the biting winter air.

Ominous, dark smoke had billowed overhead from a nearby street, had smothered the sky with unnatural grey, and the telltale smell of fire had prickled at the inside of your nostrils. There had been no trolls in the alleyway yet, but you had been able to hear their raucous voices booming down the neighboring streets, and there had been enough evidence from your initial glance around to determine that it would have only been a matter of time before they had destroyed these houses, too.

You'd glanced down then to relay your initial assessment of the area to John, only to find the window swinging closed too quickly for you to stop it.

John had never planned to leave with you. He'd only pretended to consider the idea to get you out. You'd been tricked, and there had been no one but yourself to blame.

Of course John hadn't intended to climb out after you. He hadn't been a coward, or a lost, little boy. He had been a man, a good one, and you hadn't deserved his kindness at all.

You hadn't deserved an instance of the shelter or protection he'd offered you; and he, in turn, hadn't deserved the consequences of your stay.

Why had it always been someone else sacrificing themselves for your sake? Why had it been someone else dying in your place?

It shouldn't have been John who had too quickly been dragged out into the streets, beaten bloodied and carved open, barely recognizable as a human, much less the man he had been. It shouldn't have been John who had been murdered, whose resolve had painted the cobblestone and brick walls red. It shouldn't have been John who had been torn apart in the alleyway as snarling, feral trolls had heard your choked sob--had caught you staring; and you, in your daze of betrayal and mortification, had only then begun to scramble further up the ladder to avoid meeting a similar fate, as those vicious monsters had moved to pursue you next.

It shouldn't have been John who had died. It should have been you.

But it _had_ been John who had given himself for you. John, and his lovely blue eyes, with a voice like a cherub and a smile full of light. John, who had once housed a bird in his home, who had lace lining his windows and flowers on his bedsheets, and more warmth in his chest than his little wood stove. John, who had suffered enough loss already, who had lost his sister like you'd lost your brother. John, who had smelled of Earth's bounty and everyday things, yet had made your heart fall like a shooting star. John, who had offered you everything, and had allowed you to take it.

John had been a man you would have liked to get to know better, had the circumstances been different. Had the trolls not come, perhaps you might have been introduced to John another way, on better terms--might have had something to offer _him_ besides your wretched backside as you'd fled up a slick and icy ladder.

You'd reached the rooftops and had raced across them with an anguished wail lodged in your throat, the wind screaming in your ears and through your borrowed clothes, screeches and hisses and guttural noises not far behind. You'd leapt across buildings and barreled through laundry abandoned on clotheslines, ran until your lungs had burned and your legs had buckled; and you'd only stopped when you had reached the end of a street three blocks down, when you'd heard a distorted gunshot sound off from the ground.

There, in the middle of the street, had been Jade, soot as dark as the scowl on her face. A row of storefronts had been ablaze, and she and a handful of other unfamiliar faces had been working to put out the flames while fending off a gang of trolls. Despite the carnage, you instinctively had gravitated towards her; you'd thrown yourself over onto a canopy, and when you'd tumbled down into a bruised heap on the ground, she had come running to see what had happened.

"Dirk! You're okay, oh, thank the _stars,_ " she'd breathed, all relief and nurture as she'd helped you to your feet and towards the cover behind an upturned fruit cart. "I was on my way to find you and John! Is he coming soon?"

You'd tried to tell her, tried to find your voice as she'd turned away briefly to fire another shot at a troll that had come too close. Your throat had closed around words you hadn't wanted to admit, and when Jade had looked at you again, and you'd blinked her blurry face back into focus, you had only been able to shake your head.

"No… _no_ , they got _John?_ " Her voice had broken, just like your heart; but unlike your shattered sense of self, Jade had steeled herself and gripped her gun with purpose.

She'd thrust a second weapon in your hands, and you'd wrapped your hands around it without a second thought.

"You think you can aim?"

"Yeah," you'd determined; and if not, you had always been a quick study.

There had been no extra suit for you, and so the recoil had been just as terrible as it had been in John's living room, but you had not been a bad shot; and there had been something strangely comforting about watching trolls die for a change.

Jade had been right. John should have had a gun.

* * *

Before dark, the streets had been littered with corpses, some human and some troll. By the end of the week, the stench of blood and decay had been nauseating, to the point that you and others had taken to wrapping cloths of blue and orange, the rebel colors, around your faces to combat the smell.

Hundreds had died in that district alone, and there had been no clear count of how many others had been slain. Homes had been torched, businesses destroyed, families devastated by the permanence of death forcibly inserted into their lives. The sense of peace to simply walk outside or buy bread had been tainted with fear, and there had been not one who had not somehow suffered because of the destruction.

Humans had lost much. But what hadn't been lost was the war.

Jade had come through. Equipped with her technology, the district had begun to push back the troll invasion on even that day that you had encountered her in the streets. It had taken several days of nonstop defense and battle and grit, but then it had been over. You'd won.

You hadn't personally won, obviously. But you'd survived.

And now, years later, you're still alive.

* * *

Flakes and clumps of snow fall off from your legs as you rise to your feet and brush yourself off. From where you are at the gravesite, on a hill near the edge of town, you can see winking lights and diminutive specks--people--down the slope in the distance. The scene is idyllic and tranquil, and you endeavor to reflect on such happier sights as you begin the trek back.

You trudge through snow that has piled high enough to reach your calves. It's the most snow there's been all year, and your clothes are a bit too threadbare to completely shield you from the cold--though, there's still a fire smoldering inside of you from your habitual recollection. Soon, even more snow may fall, and the wind promises a storm to match your state of mind; you, in your careless outfit of worn trousers and old jacket, should finish your errands and get indoors before long. Nevertheless, temperamental circumstances both within and without, the journey back to more cleared roads goes without immediate incident, and you don't procure frostbite despite your ill-prepared ventures.

The streets of town greet you with bustling, energetic folk, and trinkets and tinkling and talk are found every which way. Men and women alike busy themselves mounting hardy flowers and painted constructs; they nail signs, tack on wreaths of pine with cones and berries, pin up decorations along beams and windows of recently renovated storefronts. You see glass blown stars and figurines and assorted baubles, handspun banners and tapestries, braids of whites and blues and golds and silver all strung along the main road.

As you walk, you more than once carefully step aside children playing in the streets, their faces shining red with excitement in anticipation of the Festival of Skaia. You pass by peddlers with carts full of roasted corn and steamed sweet potatoes, nod your polite decline to ambitious merchants with bright, ornate toys, soft silks, attractive floral crowns and pins to be worn for the festival day's event.

A horse snorts as it trots by you along the road, the bells on its reigns ringing in time to a nearby group of rosy-cheeked people and their lively carol. It's a song you don't recognize, perhaps some new arrangement or composition. You haven't been one to keep up with the latest holiday trends, though you're not against the celebrations--you simply always have other things on your mind.

You leave behind the bulk of the excitement and make your way to the local chapel, where ornaments are displayed less ostentatiously and affairs are conducted more modestly. Your climb up steep, stone steps is accompanied by swelling harmonies from a blend of high voices echoing from within; while festivities are more tempered here, even the more conservative members of local society enjoy participating in holiday music.

The inside of the chapel is not much warmer than the outdoors, but here, as you stride through the nave and navigate through a candlelit semitransept, you are at least sheltered from cutting winds. The robust scent of incense filters into your nose, and you're sure to smell of woody frankincense long after you leave, a fact which both pleases and pains you.

Music from the chancel carries through the building and into a corridor, in which you stop at a weathered oak door. Your knocks against thick, heavy wood are incongruous in the ambience, and your patience is about the only thing that belongs here; but the voice that acknowledges you in greeting is courteous and warm, and you enter what is an office when summoned.

The room inside is sensibly furnished, though a bit sparse for even an office, the most elaborate thing being an extensive collection of books neatly arranged on a series of shelves. Your eyes adjust to even dimmer lighting from too few sconces as you take in the desk in the middle of the room, and the woman behind it.

Adorned in muted greens, her head practically wrapped in typical holy attire, she fixes you with a reserved smile; and as if glad for a distraction from a stack of menial, clerical work, the woman rises quickly at your entrance. You hesitate at her movement, in part because it's unexpected, and in part because of its effect. Seated, she had seemed unassuming and slight; but as she stands, and the length of her cassock straightens fully to the floor, you realize that she is taller than you, with an imposing and dignified presence.

You somehow doubt she's even human, but you find that thought both dangerous and unprofitable.

"Afternoon," she greets you with a nod, her voice rich like honey, and accented just as thick. "I trust you are well?"

"Yeah. I'm here to deliver a letter for you."

"Oh?"

Her eyes curiously drop to your hand as you reach into the folds of your coat, and you manifest a single piece of mail--a small envelope with neat letters printed on it and a rose-shaped seal on the back--which you promptly hand to her. For a holy woman, she flushes noticeably as she receives the delivery. Judging by the color in her cheeks, it's easy to assume that she must have been expecting mail from someone special. You refrain from commenting on it, because you are not close to her, and it's none of your business besides.

"Excuse me, then," you begin to dismiss yourself, but she hastily sets the envelope aside and steps out from her desk.

"Please allow me to escort you out."

You don't argue, because she's already brushing past you out the door, and what would be the point in bickering with a saint? Her perseverance is probably infinite.

She follows you out back into the nave, making small talk along the way, which mostly amounts to her gently inquiring as to why you're working so close to the Festival, and you offering her polite, evasive answers.

"Well, thank you for delivering the letter, festivities notwithstanding," she tells you, as the two of you come to a stop near the outer doors. "It will give me additional enjoyment for the day. But are you sure you don't require anything? Nothing to take home for your family, perhaps?"

You glance to the side, where she gestures to a table proferring baskets of goods available for those in need. In spite of the state of your dress, you struggle not to feel unqualified for such hospitality.

"I don't have any family or visitors to entertain, and I have enough for me, so I'll pass. But thanks for the offer."

"Of course. Safe travels on your way, then."

You part ways, footsteps echoing throughout the large space, and you're nearly through the archway of the door when you hear it.

At some point of your visit here, most likely during your conversation on the way out, the choir had stopped. In place of mirthful voices now comes deep, steady tones of an instrument--of a _song_ \--that you haven't heard in years.

You turn so quickly from the door that you nearly trip over yourself. You cast your gaze about the nave, look past it and towards the apse, where you note a familiar figure seated at the chapel's grand piano, playing the song that had stolen your heart away before it had broken.

But that's impossible.

You'd watched him die.

"Wait," you blurt out, the shock and disbelief rife in your voice; and only a few steps away, you hear footsteps pause.

"Yes?"

"Do you know who that is?"

You point down the length of the chapel, and in your peripheral vision, you notice her turn and follow your focus.

"Not exactly, no. That fellow came in a while ago, seeking refuge, and we couldn't turn him away. He's a pitiful man, but very kind, and it appears he's lost his memory. We've asked several people around town but no one seems to recognize him so far. Do you, by chance, know him?"

You would know that song anywhere. But you don't dare believe it's him--not until you see for yourself up close.

"No," you reply slowly. "But I'd like to. I'm in love with that song."

You ignore the knowing smile on the holy woman's face, and make your way towards the piano without waiting for a response. You're in such a hurry to reach the altar that you're almost running, and you don't even have the mind to comprehend the irony about _why_.

Life has never allowed you to believe in the possibilities of miracles. You've never prayed to a god, and one has never answered. In your numbered days, you've suffered more injustices than you can count, your birth most of all, and you've witnessed far more. But if there is anything that might instill a seed of hope or a grain of faith in your scarred, jaded, and maligned soul, it's seeing that face when you make it to the back.

Without a doubt, it is John. He is without his glasses, and his hair is slightly shaggier than it had been before, but as soon as he looks up from the keys and those blue eyes find yours, it's like you're back in his living room all over again, seeing him for the first time.

"Hi there," he smiles at you, the same delicate hands withdrawing from the keys and falling into his lap, and you momentarily have forgotten how to speak more than two words at a time.

"That song," you manage to say. "It's gorgeous."

"Is it?" He regards the keys with a sad fondness, one that plucks at a familiar chord in your chest. "I've been trying, but I can't remember how I learned it. Can't remember a lot of things, actually!"

You don't tell him that there are things he shouldn't remember. Instead, you stuff your hands in your pockets, and pursue after the chance you had wished for years ago.

"I heard you need a place to stay," you say carefully, and you will your voice to be steady when he looks up at you again. "And I'd love to hear that song again. I've got room for you at my house, if you want it."

"You sure about that? I don't have anything to offer you…"

Oh, but he'd given you everything already.

"Can I hear that song again?" _Can I hear the bluebird's song?_ "That'll be more than enough."

"Of course! But are you sure that's really enough? It's just a song--"

"I love that song," you interject firmly. "I'm sure. I could use the company, anyways."

"Alright then! I won't argue about it," he laughs softly, and you drink in the sound until it leaks out of your eyes and down your cheeks. At that, you earn a puzzled look, and a question you can only hope to answer. "Sorry if this sounds strange, but have we met before?"

I wish we hadn't, you almost say--but that's not quite true, is it?

**Author's Note:**

> They didn't even kiss, what the heck?


End file.
